« ПредишнаНапред »
Made my approaches, from her hand
Unto her lip did rise ;
The language of her eyes.
My tongue was engineer;
By whispering in the ear.
Great cannon oaths and shot,
And still it yielded not.
By cutting off all kisses,
To draw her out and from her strength,
I drew all batteries in ;
As if no siege had been.
And thought the place my own,
And smil'd at all was done.
These hopes and this relief?
And did command in chief.
; That giant upon air will live,
And hold it out for ever.
As will no siege abide ;
Only to feed her pride,
Do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have been brought to love thee; But that I found the slightest pray'r
That breath could move, had power to move thee; But I can leave thee now alone As worthy to be loy'd by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
That kisseth every thing it meets.
Arm'd with its briers, how sweet it sinells !
Its sweet no longer with it dwells. But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves drop from it one by one. Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been a while;
And I shall sigh, while some will smile.
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own ?
Unless you write my elegy ;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.
The weight of that mounts this so high.
Brought forth with their own fire and light: If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,
Out of myself it must be strook.
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear :
Raise up the buried man.
And march, the Muses’ Hannibal.
Nets of roses in the way !
And all that is not above Fate !
Which intercepts my coming praise.
Tis time that I were gone,
All I was born to know:
He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn's Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit
Preserves Rome's greatness yet :
Thou art the first of Orators ; only he
Who best can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise !
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies ; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,
And made that Art which was a Rage. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
To be like one of you?
On the calm flourishing head of it,
See us, and clouds, below.
Thou who master art of it?
A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears. Yonder we saw it plain; and here 't is now, Like spirits, in a place we know not how.
London, that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more;
Some things do through our judgment pass
As through a multiplying-glass; And sometimes, if the object be too far, We take a falling meteor for a star.
Hence 't is a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows such a common name; And Wits by our creation they become, Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
'T is not a tale, 't is not a jest
Admir'd with laughter at a feast,
With their five gouty feet.
Such were the numbers which could call
The stones into the Theban wall. Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.
Yet 't is not to adorn and gild each part;
That shows more cost than art.
Several lights will not be seen,
If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i’ th' sky, If those be stars which paint the Galaxy. "T is not when two like words make up one noise
(Jests for Dutch men and English boys) ; In which who finds out Wit, the same may see In an'grams and acrostick poetry :
Much less can that have any place
At which a virgin hides her face; Sach dross the fire must purge away: 't is just The author blush there, where the reader must.
"T is not such lines as almost crack the stage
When Bajazet begins to rage;
Nor upon all things to obtrude
And force some odd similitude.